


une fleur sans soleil

by fruitwhirl



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, i wrote this just so i could write the Amelie Kiss, i'm too lazy to do the accent thing sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 14:55:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17024763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: In a moment of impulsivity, Jake leans in to finally kiss her, only for her to stop him, holding two fingers up to halt his motion. He furrows his eyebrows in response, but she just looks up at him again, slowly leans forward and up to press her lips to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for one, two—three beats. She pulls back, trying to gauge his reaction, but he can’t speak.(four drink Amy really likes French films)





	une fleur sans soleil

**Author's Note:**

> i love amélie so much -- both the movie and musical -- and god i love the kiss ok. if you haven't seen the kiss first of all watch the movie but also please please watch it here (it might help to have a visual): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQutB3mYc84
> 
> title from the film, meaning "a flower without sun"

He knows that Amy has a low alcohol tolerance. 

He found out when they were working their third all-nighter, when they were still trying to track down a possible serial killer and they were both tired and frustrated and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her grown-out bangs framing her worn, ragged face. They were in one of the empty interrogation room, and at one point, one of them—honestly, he doesn’t even know who—brought out the bottle of cheap scotch their captain keeps in the closet off the west hall, and it only takes one shot for Amy to get tipsy and spacey and very “not Amy.”

(He didn’t get to meet anyone past one-drink-Amy, though, because they were still on the clock and still had a job to do; but, three months later, he  _ did  _ get to experience three-drink-Amy at the sex crimes’ Christmas party so it’s fine, really.)

However, he thinks that once they started dating, the Santiago Drunkeness scale changes, just a little bit. She’s still a little scatter-brained at one, a little high-volume at two, a little “high energy” at three, and he expects her to be a bit more perverted at four, especially when she’s nervous and he’s nervous and she’s biting her lip while he struggles with unlocking his door until remembering, holy fuck, he  _ didn’t  _ lock his door (he’s a dumbass, he lives in  _ Brooklyn,  _ for God’s sake; thankfully, Amy just smiles, wraps her arms around his waist from the back, rests her cheek on his shoulder).

As he turns the doorknob, her hands slip to grasp one of his, following him—slow, but steady—into his apartment while he sputters out apologies about the piles of hoodies and jeans and t-shirts lying on the floor along the wall, the way his bed is definitely unmade, how she must be judging him because Amy’s so good and he’s so messy in both his physical space and his emotional space. Part of Jake wonders why she agreed to go out with him in the first place, wonders if she’ll kiss him again, slipping her hands into his newly-cropped hair, lean her forehead against his as he anchors himself with his palms on her hips, then scaling up, up her back. 

Right before he steps past the first of his massage chairs, Amy holds a little tighter onto his hand, pulling his arm taut and causing him to pause, right in his tracks. He turns around, curious at her little hitch, but she’s just smiling softly, her eyes wide and searching.

In a moment of impulsivity, Jake leans in to finally kiss her, only for her to stop him, holding two fingers up to halt his motion. He furrows his eyebrows in response, but she just looks up at him again, slowly leans forward and up to press her lips to the corner of his mouth, lingering there for one, two—three beats. She pulls back, trying to gauge his reaction, but he can’t speak.

He’s always thought that it was cheesy when people say that a certain look can take their breath away—maybe he’s cringy and a sap but he can’t breathe as she repeats her ministrations, first drifting to his neck, then to the skin right above his eyebrow, her cheek brushing against his. He can smell the sweet alcohol on her breath, though he doesn’t think that four drink Amy has made a proper appearance. 

And then Amy rocks back on her heels, her eyes earnest and her pupils blown wide and her lips just slightly parted. At some point, her hands had crept up to lay against the front of his shirt, and they remain there, a barely-there weight on his chest. Then she presses the two fingers of her right hand to her own lips, and it’s a wordless communication that serves as a contrast to their usual bickering and quips. But if he thinks a little more, a little harder, then there’s a sort of easy, unspokenness to the way he loves her (he doesn’t want to admit it yet, not even to himself, but he’s probably there), and it’s much of why they work so well—how with just the twitch of her nose he can tell that the suspect she’s interrogating is about to give up; how he can just raise his eyebrows and she’ll take the back stairwell of a perp’s building so they can cut him off; how they joked about “everything is changing” in the records room and after a beat of something quiet, they leaned down and up and an arm was slung around his neck while two hands brought her closer, closer.

So she closes her eyes as he shifts forward, kisses the vertex where her lips meet and he relishes in the quiet hitch of her breath. His nose skims her cheek as he floats to her neck, to the edge of her jaw right below her ear. Then his lips hover over her right eyebrow, lingers on the flutter of her eyelashes. 

When he pulls back, her body follows him as if on instinct, and she lifts on the tips of her toes (she must have kicked off her heels at some point) to kiss him soundly, and she tastes a bit like tequila and the way he feels when he watches  _ Die Hard.  _ Amy steps forward, into him more, and his hands grasp at her hips, at the zipper on the side of her scarlet, scarlet dress as his mouth opens up to her, up to her tongue and her sweet, sweet breath. 

It’s not until later, long after they’ve both realized that they’ve broken a rule and Jake’s head lying on her chest and he’s periodically pressing kisses into her shoulder and she’s got her hands in his hair, and he can feel the steady rhythm of her heart’s beating that he wonders how he got to be this fucking lucky. 

One day, when they’re finishing some French film (Amy promise they’d watch  _ Die Hard  _ afterward) and she’s curled against his side while take-out lies in their lap, he’ll get to the end of the movie and realize that Four Drink In-a-Relationship Amy Santiago likes to copy famous movie kisses (after they got engaged and she was drunk and it was raining, she insisted on having a “Kiss in the Rain” but he thought it ended there). 

He won’t be sure how he feels about it, but he definitely won’t install a pull-up bar in their apartment and start hanging upside-down when she gets tipsy so they can recreate the Spiderman kiss, which is undoubtedly the most iconic kiss in the history of cinema.

(She’ll kiss him anyway, and he'll feel the laughter on her lips.)


End file.
